The Licence That Slipped Out of the System

The Honourable Union Minister for Road Transport and Highways, Nitin Gadkari, had stated back in 2014 that RTOs would be replaced by an efficient, digitised and faceless system to root out corruption and enhance efficiency.

In September 2025, I had the perfect opportunity to test this promise when my Driving Licence (DL) came up for renewal.  In the past, visiting an RTO meant enduring a swarm of touts offering to “help” with routine tasks. One often walked out feeling oddly victorious, not because the system worked, but because one had managed to avoid them, even if it meant multiple visits.

On 9th September 2025, I applied online for renewal, well before the expiry date of 5th October. My licence (2020–2025) had a minor technical issue, my name carried an initial instead of the expanded version in Aadhaar, requiring a few additional steps.

I completed the process diligently: filled the form, got the medical certificate signed at a local Primary Health Centre on 12th September, uploaded it, and noted that the photo/signature stage was marked “exempted.” I paid ₹459 on 26th September. The portal reassured me: Do not visit the RTO; the renewed licence will be delivered by post.

Weeks passed. My application remained frozen at “under process.” The Sarathi helpline was polite but powerless.

Then, on 29th October, came the inevitable twist: “Your Application is pending due to improper Photo/Signature.”

I compiled with this unexpected new requirement, resized files under 20 KB as instructed and attempted the upload. The portal refused to cooperate.

Thus began the “faceless” system’s insistence on a very physical presence.  Visits to the RTO followed, each costing ₹450 one way. The office had shifted from Koramangala to HSR Layout. There was no helpdesk, only a maze of rooms and directions. After being shuttled across floors, I learnt that the lone technical resource, “Mr. Nikhil,” was unavailable.  The Case Officer suggested I apply afresh. The ARTO advised me to return the next day, only Mr. Nikhil could resolve “technical issues.”

The next day, after another ₹450 ride, Mr. Nikhil appeared, glanced at my application, and pronounced the diagnosis with clinical brevity: “Technical issue.”  He promised escalation.

A week later, I could finally upload my photo and signature. The application then lay dormant until 30th December 2025, when, as if in a "New Year" festive gesture, approval was granted.

By January, the portal showed:  Smart Card printing activated (8th Jan)

Dispatch completed (30th Jan).  

I downloaded the digital licence via DigiLocker. A Speed Post number appeared for the Smart Card.

But throughout February, the tracking status remained unwavering: no such booking exists.  The local post office confirmed my suspicion, the consignment had never been handed over.

On 7th March, an envelope finally arrived. It carried a covering letter with the Speed Post reference number.  It did not contain the Smart Card.  Tracking revealed the article had actually been booked only on 5th March, over a month after the portal claimed dispatch.

By now, the irony had fully matured.  A friend who had used an agent got his renewal done in under three weeks, without stepping out, for under ₹1000. Meanwhile, following the “faceless digital” route had cost me nearly six months, multiple RTO visits, and over ₹3000 in travel alone.

Armed with past experience, I went back to the RTO expecting the worst, perhaps a police complaint for a “lost” card that was never delivered, followed by an application for a duplicate.  Instead, something far more surreal awaited.

At the RTO, I was directed to a counter, where I met the same Case Worker who had earlier suggested I apply afresh.  He asked a familiar question: “Through whom did you apply?”  When I repeated that I had applied online myself, he asked when I had received the envelope.  “Four days ago,” I said.

Without further inquiry, he reached into a box containing what must have been over 300 Smart Cards, rummaged briefly, and, within seconds, pulled out mine.  Like a magician producing a rabbit from a hat.

After more than six months, on 12th March 2026, I finally held my renewed licence.  

Curiosity got the better of me. I asked why the card had not been inside the envelope.

The answer came without hesitation or embarrassment: sometimes the cards slip out. He had been collecting such cards to help customers who returned.  There were more than 300 of them.

In the earlier system, despite its chaos, one could at least expect to see the licence within a couple of weeks.  Today, in the age of digitisation, my licence took six months, several trips to the RTO, and over ₹3000 in travel, only to be found resting quietly in a cardboard box with hundreds of others that had apparently “slipped out.”  

The touts may have vanished from the corridors, but the system seems to have quietly reinvented them in spirit.  After six months, several visits, and thousands of rupees spent proving that a digital system works, I learnt a simple lesson:  The system may now be faceless, but the common man still ends up paying the price for that missing face.

Which leaves one wondering: perhaps the system has indeed become faceless.

Only the touts seem to have retained a face, and, more importantly, a solution.

And somewhere in a cardboard box inside an RTO office, hundreds of Smart Cards continue to wait patiently for their owners to discover them.

Stories, not instructions. Experiences, not advice—medical or otherwise. Data, only what the internet quietly gathers anyway. Proceed with equal parts curiosity and common sense.